


we couldn’t bring the columns down

by laserway



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Drabble, Gen, miranda cuts flint's hair, that's it that's the fic, the flinthamilton is hinted at but it's there it counts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 11:59:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18010517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laserway/pseuds/laserway
Summary: “I fear I have ruined your fearsome reputation entirely with my hairdressing. Whatever will you do now?”“I don’t know, perhaps shave it all off?”





	we couldn’t bring the columns down

**Author's Note:**

> I really remade my ao3 account to post this mess huh...don't ask me when this is set, it's pre-Charles Town obviously and post-beginning of the show but that's about it

The thing Flint never fails to notice when he arrives at Miranda’s after months, weeks, or even just days at sea is the silence. In reality, it is merely quiet here, far from silent, but after the constant buzzing noise on board the world seems near-mute, like it is wrapped in cotton. The only sound besides the low murmuring of the wind in the sugar canes is coming from the wind chime strung up from the roof of the porch. It came from a merchant vessel, years ago, the four tin bells tinkling like they are not so frayed from their long exposure to sea, salt, and sun that they look like they could fall apart if Flint were to touch them.

He remembers when he presented it to Miranda, her eyes lighting up with a smirk. “Well, it certainly is more appropriate than the one we saw together once.” And he remembers the scandalously shaped artefact they had been presented with at some salon or dinner, “A tintinnabulum, allegedly from ancient Rome”, according to their host. He remembers too the hushed conversation later that night, though not with Miranda, the joke he made about the philosophical Romans perhaps being humans made of flesh and blood, despite the stoicism they aspired to.

This they never talked about, having stopped talking about the past – their past – long before, after an unspoken agreement that anything but fleeting comments would make their story stagnant, stuck.

Flint is pulled from his musings when a second sound is mixed in with the chime of the bells, Miranda’s soft-soled steps and then the rustling of her skirts as she sits down next to him. “Tea”, she says, pointing out the obvious while handing him a cup of it. “It’s what those of us who don’t live on a steady diet of rum like to drink.”

He takes the cup from her, sipping from it and immediately burning his tongue, fully aware it would happen, then sends a smile of thanks her way.

“Why, here I thought you appreciated the fine bottle of it I delivered to your doorstep just last night.”

Flint’s mind has wandered back to the ringing of the wind chimes when Miranda speaks up again.

“The one you threatened to impale yourself with if I brought a pair of scissors within ten feet of your hair?” She produces the dangerous object in question from a fold of her dress and places it on the porch railing.  Flint makes a show of recoiling violently from it, although he fails to keep a straight face.

“If you don’t cut your hair soon the people here in the interior will demand you wear a cap or a bonnet to cover up those scandalous locks of yours.”

“Last I remember I’m not a married woman of middle age”, he retorts, although he knows he is not winning this argument, not after Miranda has brought it up a second time. Both of them know this, know that sooner or later he will let her trim his hair, although he likes it longer, enjoys when the wind blows through it. And because it tethers Captain Flint to James McGraw and his tidy, satin-bound pleat, though this again belongs in the category of thoughts too substantial to be spoken aloud.

This thing they have here – their rituals, their companionship – is fragile because it is incomplete, a shaky construct missing the part that would hold it together firmly. They take from and give to one another in the most intimate ways, despite an acute awareness on both their parts that it is an attempt to scratch an itch impossible to reach, but to talk casually, easily of what was before seems to momentous even after ten years.

So he does not argue in sincerity and instead sips at his now slightly cooler tea while Miranda gets up to move behind him, making an ominous snipping sound with the scissors in her hands.

Soon strands of ginger begin to fall to the ground and gather on the sun-bleached wood there. It could be a matter of minutes but Miranda is taking her time with it like always, stroking the hair that remains softly, which Flint allows himself to lean into, allows himself to revel in the warmth of the gesture. They converse about the ship (“How much seagull shit on the figurehead is too much?”), the crew (“How does someone fuck up roasting a pig, all you have to do is stick it over a fire and wait!”), about everything this island could be, should be really.

Eventually Miranda’s hands still and she pauses to admire her work, dusting loose hair from the shoulder’s of Flint’s shirt. “Happy now?”, he asks her turning around with his face scrunched up where he is looking into the sun that is almost blindingly bright behind her.

“Why yes, you look almost presentable”, she laughs and bends down to press a kiss to the top of his head. “I fear I have ruined your fearsome reputation entirely with my hairdressing. Whatever will you do now?”

“I don’t know, perhaps shave it all off?”, he replies as he gets up, dusting himself off and picking up their teacups to take them inside.

“Absolutely not, James, only over my dead body!”, Miranda laughs again as she follows him inside.

**Author's Note:**

> I gotta make it public that this was brought to you by Regina Spektor's Samson coming on on shuffle while I was researching tintinnabulums (don't ask) and yes those actually exist


End file.
